


July, 1981

by renaissance



Series: R/S 24-Hour Challenge [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bleak, Canonical Character Death, Espionage, First War with Voldemort, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 05:25:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13264632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: The death of a friend, the dying days of the First War, the death of a friendship.





	July, 1981

**Author's Note:**

> for the inaugural R/S 24 Hour Challenge, and NachoDiablo's prompt "the morning after," with the inclusion of the following words: pillow, banana, firewhisky, snogging, fire, lipstick, window, hippogriff, tattoo, jealous. there were two things that immediately came to mind when i saw the prompt, so of course i decided to go with neither of them and wrote angst instead, because that's just how i am. i also tried to use the words in an unusual way, so keep an eye out for them!

They had no time for funerals anymore. One Order member dead, others still in danger—the rest were too busy to mourn.

The graveyard in Upper Flagley was at the edge of town. Remus couldn’t walk in through the church; it was a Sunday morning and the Muggles were out in full-force, dressed in their pressed trousers and blouses, forming a neat line down the front path. A few of them turned to look at Remus as he passed. A bit of a walk further the road dwindled to open fields. Remus veered off the path and climbed over a low wall. There was a low fog, but he didn’t dare cast _Lumos_. He trusted in his sense of direction and dragged his muddying hemlines through dewy, greying grass.

At last the graveyard resolved itself through the cloud. The church service was in session, the faint notes of a hymn drifting through the sole open window, set high in its stone walls, and with it the only light in the graveyard. By that light Remus found five fresh graves, sitting at the furthest edge of the plot from the church. There was no evidence of deliberate order to any of the graveyard. Some of the headstones may well have been older than the church, and beside them were newer, more ostentatious monuments. For the new graves, one headstone of granite between them. Five names—the McKinnons—and above them the image of a Hippogriff picked out in porphyry. There was no epitaph. It was likely that no-one had the creativity to think of one, not these days.

Figuring he was dirty enough already, Remus sat by the central grave. He had no way of knowing who was interred where; he imagined the parents on the left, the younger siblings to the right, and Marlene in the middle. He ran his fingers over the Earth. Dry. It had rained last night, when they were killed.

The morning after a murder was always the hardest part. This was meant to be the height of summer.

Remus heard a crack, knew someone had Apparated into the graveyard, but didn’t bother to look to the source of the sound. It felt like the height of indecency to Apparate into a place of mourning. There was only one person Remus knew who fit the profile.

“Should’ve guessed I’d find you here,” Sirius said.

“You think I’d leave for anything less?”

Sirius made a noise, impatient and dismissive. “It’s the—it’s more the impression of it all. You want people to think you’re all cut up over it, like you didn’t—”

Remus stood. Sirius was closer now, a sway in his step and smelling of firewhisky.

“Don’t you start. It’s bad enough that everyone thinks I’ll turn any moment because of what I am. But you—you should know better.”

“Should I?”

“I don’t know, Sirius. I don’t know what I mean to you.”

It was pathetic. Remus knew they both felt just as culpable, but he was nervous nevertheless. His heart beat out a tattoo against its mortal confines and he forced himself to stay staring at Sirius, daring him, almost, to make the accusation.

“Just tell me the truth and then wipe my memory,” Sirius said. “Give me time to react then make me forget I ever doubted you.”

“I’m not the spy,” Remus said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Marlene,” Remus said, “why would I tell them about _Marlene_? You know I loved her just as you did.”

“I know you might have, once,” Sirius said. “Can’t know anything for certain these days.”

“You know where I was last night,” Remus said.

Sirius was quiet. The congregation had stopped singing; now the pastor droned out a sermon. At last, Sirius said, “Yes. I do.”

 

* * *

 

 

There was a photo of the three of them in the safehouse. A Muggle photo, taken in a Muggle club, because that was how Sirius liked it.

“We’re not meant to leave any trace of ourselves,” Remus warned him, as he did every time.

“It’s Muggle stuff, these are Muggle houses,” Sirius said. “Even if they do find it, the Death Eaters aren’t going to look twice at it.”

If they did find it, they would find a message. A different one each time, and a different photo too, different Order members captured by Sirius’ camera. This safehouse was in York, a one-bedroom flat that had been furnished by its last owners, Muggles. On the fifth shelf of the bookcase, wedged between two pages in _Catch-22_ , the back of the photograph read: _Not this time, bastards!_

Remus had never read _Catch-22_ , but he knew it was about war. He watched Sirius put the book back and charm some dust onto its spine, like it had never been touched.

In the photo, Remus to the left, daggy and awkward in his borrowed denim jacket. Sirius looked carelessly handsome—as always—with one arm around Remus and the other around Marlene, who was beautiful too. Her bright red lipstick and the middle finger she raised to the camera were the only things that stood out as the photo faded. It was from two years ago, now.

“Come on,” Sirius said. “Let’s not waste time.”

Now it was a matter of how much time they had. This wasn’t the same as furtive snogging in hidden corners at Hogwarts; the world had grown up, and so they were forced to. With Remus part-timing among the werewolves and Sirius in hiding—he was an obvious target—they had precious little time to themselves, with each other. The safehouses were Sirius’ idea. Marlene monitored the safehouse network, and it had been an easy thing to talk her into opening doors. It wasn’t above board, although who could say how much Dumbledore knew, and it was the furthest thing from sensible, which was typical Sirius. That must have been why it appealed to Remus so much.

This wasn’t the most comfortable safehouse they’d used. The bedroom housed a narrow and too-short bed with a single pillow at the head, the shagpile carpet might never have been cleaned, and the wallpaper and curtains were the same garish banana-yellow. Remus had to close his eyes to make it work.

“Next time,” Sirius said, “we’ll ask Marlene for something with a few more creature comforts.”

“Don’t joke about that. You know the full moon is coming up. And we’re in no position to be choosy.”

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Then trust me,” Remus said.

Without warning, Sirius pulled out his wand and pointed it at Remus. “Who are you?”

They were far enough apart that Sirius’ wand did not touch Remus’ chest, although it threatened to. This, at least, was a routine Remus knew well.

“Remus John Lupin, born on the tenth of March, nineteen-sixty. Formerly of Hogwarts, resident of the bed at the far left of the dorm we shared in Gryffindor tower. Currently homeless. In our fourth year, you and I accidentally set fire to a pair of Peter’s socks, and while they burnt we had James cast the Unbreakable Vow on us—not so that he’d never find out, but because you and James thought it would be a laugh to try out the spell, and this was something so inconsequential that we’d never have cause to mention it again.”

Gradually, as Remus spoke, Sirius lowered his wand. “We were so stupid.”

“You and James?” Remus laughed. “Yeah.”

“You never stopped us,” Sirius said. At that moment he sounded like a fourteen-year-old again, the heir apparent who hadn’t quite shaken his entitlement.

Silent, they stood side-by-side and looked down at the headstone. A light rain had begun to fall through the fog, dampening the earth.

“I wonder which one is hers,” Remus said.

“The middle one.” Sirius kicked at the dirt. “Don’t look so shocked. I got up early and I heard on the wireless that the Dark Mark was sighted over Upper Flagley. We were nearby, so I volunteered to check the site. I told Arthur it was the McKinnons. Where did you think I was?”

“First thing I heard was Arthur reporting the deaths. Thought you’d decided I was the spy and pissed off. Which is half right, isn’t it?”

After a pause, Sirius said, “We still don’t know who the spy is. Could be you.”

“Could be you, too,” Remus said.

Sirius laughed mirthlessly.

“You know,” Remus continued, “I’m jealous of Marlene.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s dead,” Remus said, “and now everybody knows she wasn’t the spy.”

The Dark Mark likely still glittered in the sky above the McKinnon’s house, a sinister constellation of black and green, but the fog was so heavy that Remus wouldn’t have seen it as he walked from the graveyard. The parishioners had started singing another hymn. Behind his back, Remus heard the crack of Sirius leaving the way he came.


End file.
